


мост посреди ада

by rodyenka



Category: Prestuplenie i nakazanie | Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodyenka/pseuds/rodyenka
Summary: Raskolnikov is feeling more worthy that anyone else in that filthy and disgusting city, overcrowded with human louse such one Petersburg is. His pride and the greatest feeling he covers his mother and sister forced Rodya to unexcusable deed. Perhaps it was something above that just financial position of his family.
Relationships: Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov/Dmitri Prokofich Razumikhin
Kudos: 5





	мост посреди ада

The stink of this Russian city gave the young man a unbearable headache, a truly migraine, which struck bone of his skull even more intensive than the one he had got inside his poverty-stricken garret. It was a tiny room - if it even might be worth naming 'room' - with dusty yellow paper on the wall and miserably small amount of furniture. This 'room' was not supposed to be the location, where most common actions could take their places, but Raskolnikov was not person supposed to do most of common actions too. By common actions are understand basic activities every human being is obligated to done by nature and society: eating properly, sleeping as much as organism needs and just after the moment of engluting the primary needs, employ yourself in due position - or just any you qualify to realize. Although Rodyon Romanovich Raskolnikov seemed to not bother himself such a things. Who would, when there are a numbers of things greater than that? His brain was constantly preoccupied with something much bigger, absolutely dignified, than his material and physical condition - no, the seriousest weight he carried on his heart was the condition of two loved and esteemed by poor wight women: his caring mother Pulcheria Alexandrovna and supportive and strong sister Avdotya Romanovna, whom he loved with all he had. 'Could I bother myself with a hunger, which I just got used to, when the same lot meets my dear mother and sister through my fault? That sum of money my mother sent to me last year (it had been sixty roubles, which Dunya had took for me from that heinous creature Svidrigailov!) would for sure be enough to pay fees, I could earned enough to buy myself clothes, food and books to study, there is no doubt! I was calculating it many times during my learning at university, with sixty roubles I was able to create a life I want for my family! But I prefer lying in the dark, without food, without money, do not wanting to even think about thinking! Oh no, I need to stop here, because I d o want to contemplate and that IS my bigger issue! I do n o t h i n g more than contemplating and sorrowing over my poor, gloomy being, lying in the dark, in my pitiable d e n with dust lying an inch thick on floor, on table - even on me, when I have not been moving for more than three days. All I do is thinking, although by thinking roubles will not start falling from the dirty Petersburg's sky!'

Raskolnikov could not endure t h i s feeling of d i s a p p o i n t i n g the most important people in his life for so long period of morbid disability - it had been a while since his body was prospering as it is spected and clarity of mind had been a thing less unusual than it was at that moment at time. Razumihin had used to claim this situation of Raskolnikov's health had its source in his poverty (which young man invariably deny to being a beggary), in chronic hunger and scrawny build of his body. No matter where was cause of his indisposition, the fact was - both of that lavish and tender-hearted ladies (Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Avdotya Romanowna, his poor mother and sister!) were devoting their last roubles and copecks for this nonutility existence in hope one day their only chance for better mortal coil (their dear boy!) will repay all grief and sorrow and will guarantee more dignified life. Even while he had forsook education as a law student due to his financial situation, he had should and probably was able to find himself any profitable job, maybe economised some roubles to back to university and after graduate, began a legal bureau to make his mother and sister's arrival to Saint Petersburg possible.

The migraine, which was marauding inside his head, was nothing above irritatingly biting pain of graze ensued by lack of vigilance beside t h a t feeling. All he was doing during his nonutility existence was depredating from mother's pocket copecks she saved or even the ones she indebted herself (what she naively called 'borrowing on security of her pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch Vahrushin); was stealing most of roubles earned by hard and humiliating job as Dunya had at Svidrigailov and Marfa Pietrovna's house as mistress. Raskolnikov just do not wanted to accept the thought he was nothing but scrounger, who - in addition to all his thievish crimes - was wasting money by giving them to strangers he meets on the Petersburg's street on his questionable moral grounds; because of the impulse of his heart. 'I am the same lance like the others', he thought with real misery, ablaze anger and poor grief. "I am letting my mother and Dunya starving just for my escaping into my own mind!'

At that very moment, when Rodion became heartwrenchingly cognisant of his vanity, his exalted pride was dented.

Without noticing, he found himself on the bridge located near the building, which he rented garret in, looking at the water of the Griboedov Canal running under his existence and stony pavement of construction. Running water gave him calm for a very little time, during which his mind detached itself no from reality, but from stubborn thoughts, thoughts, which had been born in his head previously. Reflection of the sun set was shining so bright, so dynamically, that view could be beautiful (water looked like robe with diamonts on it) if only the watercourse wouldn't be dark, almost brown because of sewage. Wisps of the dirts brought to mind a vision of blood smedge on pristine cloth.

The time, when Raskolnikov felf a great relief, was not long. Shortly after thoughts about water and nature soothed emotional turmoil, his mind was flooded with previous contemplations. 'Only a little effort' he mumbled, used to start a monologue just in front of strangers 'Only a little effort could spare my mother's suffering! My sister's ignominy! Both of them could live peaceful life in the province or here, near me, and it could be like before...But is there any sense? Any meaning in my pointless chatter?' One of passerby looked at him just like on drunk or insane one - and maybe she didn't err in Raskolnikov's judgment with the last one, but he was not able to care less about people than he did that time.

Young man fell on his knee, poked bones of his legs hits the pavement with painful, blunt sound, but as quick as he fell, he got up - in one rapid motion he lifted his slack body from pavement (with a dose of grace in that frantic action) and by one second Rodion pitched his upper body over bridge's cold, metal barrier, standing only on his toes; being ready to chucked himself off. Through thick fog of his severe to cope with emotions, young man could not feel sticking barrier between his ribs.

'There's no pleasure in grabbing my mother and sister's money to continue my education, which is not going to save us! Indeed, there is no sense in learning plenty of years! Just for troubles with finding a proper job! Maybe in twelve years i would become a teacher, but theretofore my mother will die of grief and my sister could...it highly possible something unspeakable frightening would meet my poor Dunya then! Things would be better for both of them if I end this pathetic being...'

Rodia lifted his left foot, standing very unsteadily and shakily; if it was even possible, the young man was hesitating at some mental level of his superego, but at the same time he was tragically determined to barge himself into an aquatic abyss. In that moment, Raskolnikov was delectably unaware of affairs, whose might have come in future, and whose had their beginning in that tragic-looking act of desperation. Only feeling keeping him alive was his own, hurted and repair-demanding pride.

And he fell in the end - but not into waters of the Griboedov Canal; no, Raskolnikov's psyche was overexert by inconsistent matters and feelings both in his mind and heart to that point the young man collapsed. He hit his head so hard and infelicitously against the barrier while his body was slipping from it, his lower lip split very deeply; the same thing met his head - blood sloshed on stony pavement from a small cut in his scalp in the moment, when hard bone of skull contacted with even harder stone.

When he opened his congestive eyes, to his great astonishment, any part of his body didn't hurt. Raskolnikov tried to lift his body from the ground hastily, expecting that motion could end up with a terrible headache, which in fact didn't stop roving deeply inside his brain. It was absolutely sure for Rodia to wake up lying on pavement of bridge, granted that he didn't develop any serious (and abled to send him straight to the grave) head injury. What didn't seem to be truth, even without the fall.

Green, in some places yellow, grass under his bare feet felt strangely enough to made Raskolnikov feel at least bewildered. Since he had resigned from university, he started to not liking the nature and the people. They gave him unspeakable irritate with all their loud conversations, unpredictable behaviour and bright, a much too bright daylight. All these ambient conditions influenced on poor young man highly adversely - this is a reason why grass made such negative impact on his character.

Right next to him walking, the blurred road went, one for that cottage style ones; lane, which no one has strolled along for a long, long time. All area around could pass for desolated by every human being. There was gasting trees with rank limb, with any leaves on them though, the lowest of branches was blending with green bush and colourful flawers of other shorter plants. Behind that maze of nature buildings stood, inevitably dilapidated wherethrough the matter of running time. One of them, which looked like the one that went through the most, had his roof collapsed into the inside of the house. By the hole in wooden walls emerges cluster of ivy, coming up to corona of nearer trees. As far he came as less houses and more trees was there. And as fast he walked as heavier it was raining. Water was forming more and more pools around.

'Where am i? Am I still in Petersburg or I won fight with my own mind about ending my unendurable life?' the young man felt need to walk in unknown direction. 'Which circle of hell I am in?' as previously, Raskolnikov felt a need, but this time to make sarcastic joke of this situation. As an atheist, he didn't believe in hell. He kept on step one foot after another one and in front of his eyes, old forest appeared. Or maybe it was there before and Raskolnikov was unabled to see that forest for some unguessed reasons? It was highly possible. At first glance than olden congeries of trees seem very raggedly indeed, just like Mother Nature had created this place in a fluster, without reflection and plan. Just like she thrown away here all elements of landspace she had not used in previous locations. Like before, the thick maze of branches, leaves and flowers was creating almost impassable to walk through barrier, like the border of forest any human could ever and would be able to pass. The creation did not look like Raskolnikov remembered it, but under the coat of neglect, this places brought memories to him.

'I know this forest!' he screamed into completely emptiness of nature 'My mother, my poor mother, used to take me on walk to this forest, yes, I am certain! It is forest from my the pleasantest of full memories' seam! Here I was playing with Dunya, ah! And? And yes, here, right here, my mother hugged me and gave me this silver watch...Oh, mother, I didn't know inheriting this watch from my father meant in your head I won't, Dunya won't - we all won't see my father anymore!'

Before Raskolnikov got into the gloomy spirit again, a sudden sound came from his right - it was loud enough to capture Rodya's attention: too loud and too human for a squeak of some wild animals lived in forest. Man squatted, listening the emptiness. 'Is it a sound of wilding or am I just getting mad? Oh, another one! No, it is not animal...' It sound just like scream, scream of little child, overfull of suffering, of pain.

Raskolnikov felt a shudder of fear running along his shoulders and down the back, the young man rose his head warily, just a inch above high brush he was hidden between. In the moment the scream spread with echo around the trees, angrily irritation wash over his; Rodya felt like his legs' ones firstly and a second later muscles of whole body got knotted painfully. Before that information came to his awareness, he was very near the root of that disturbing call - on the ground, with head between two closely growing trees, lied a little boy; he could had six, maybe seven years of live on his account. He was crying for help, with every moment passed his voice was quieter and quieter, his throat was giving up of emit any sounds. On the skin surface of boy's neck there was visible longitudinal, finger-shape bruises and some of outer skin layerswas scratched. 'It was more than obvious that poor boy was braised!' think Raskolnikov with a resentment. Boy's chest was bouncing irregularly to such a degree that Raskolnikov without thinking stood up and took first fast step in boy's directions.

'Oh, so you're still alive!' the scream came up to Rodya's ears from the right. Boy started to cry louder and even tried to lift himself and run, but after two or free wobbly steps he just fall again. 'I ought to have kill you in the very first moment I saw you! When you were born! You're rotten, rotten apple of my family!' In few swift motions man was next to bitten boy, he grabbed back of child's snagged tatter in his strong, muscled hand and carried his son up, just like this little human didn't weight anything. And, in this same way, he bowled him into the tree. 'Because of you, just because of you my sweetest wife is dead now, it's your fault, you little brat!'. Boy tried to got up one other time. Father planned to kick his crawling son into his head, probably wanting to end his life by this one cruel move, but someone third appeared in back of evildoer - dark-haired youngster with thick branch in his hand and fire painted bright on his face. Rodya experienced the feeling of knowing him. Just after taking decuman swipe, without hesitation boy stroke man into middle of his skull.

The hit had not been specially powerful - and it was completely expected due to fact that newcomer was a youngster with a weak bearing. He did not can be count neither to the people high-height nor the robust ones. At the moment of hit in young man's iris was burning angerly, but something else was hidden in this brown eyes, something Raskolnikov did miss to, did not spy because of his hair falling on his face due to the power of strike. Immediately after situation, brown-eyed boy thrown wielded by himself branch, which felt under Rodya's feet. Youngster was standing straight over the father's motionless body. He looked like he wanted to stay here as long as man woke up, only for surety he did not inflict him death. When it came to his awareness that man probably would not come back to life again, he jumped to the place where poor, bitten boy lied. To being abled to penetrate thick vegetation and got to boy, he was pressed to pull out some plants from the wet ground surface.

'Hello, little boy, please, respond me...' he knelt down and leant across bruised face. 'Are you alive, little poor thing, or have your spirit left you already?' his voice was in pain and terribly shocked. Anger faded away from youngster's eyes, only what had left was disbelief, disbelief which Raskolnikov become aware of seeing previously on his countenance. For that very moment Rodya stayed in blessed unknowledge regarding the battle, which was fighting inside the youngster's head. Brown-eyed was an offspring of Italian noble family, who was rearing in Catholic religion. It meant being muted in one's reactions and emotions - anger was one of the Main Sins and that what exactly what was painted on his young face just twinkling of an eye ago; it meant preserving respectful attitide towards other people and for certain it did not mean hitting people in back of their head and causing their death.

'Oh, my dearest Lord, he is dead!' the boy cried in grief, for a moment reclude himself from the real world, but few deep breaths after he stood up in rush. He looked about, keeping a very sharp lookout indeed, just like he wanted to gain absolutely surety no one, any living soul, saw what he did here, what happened here. It seemed he did not see Raskolnikov despite of the fact he was looking right at white with fear man. Them his sight drained off to the father's body - it had a really rough-looking wound on its nape of the neck, branch youngster used to dumbfounded him had sharp end and this left this bloody mark. Boy carefully stepped to father body and check his pulse, tighten his finger on man's neck, just above the wound. Raskolnikov saw, how much power youngster put in this move. 'Oh no, oh no! No no no!'

He started crying with tears. His sobbing was quiet, but full of sorrow.

'My sin would had been yet worthy if this poor boy had survived..!' He raised his head up and looked at the bloody man skin and on his face Rodya descried a smudge of...relief? The man's face was under the water of pool - it was possible that not distraught youngster, but the water was a being, which has taken this bestial father's life - was a murderer.

Dazzling sunlight was grinding its merciless pins into his eyes since very first moment he opened them. The feeling of being watched by unknown passerbies and the present roiling silence whispered voices around his head gave his and order to sit up on pavement. He did not know how long he has been lying there, but it seems to be unimportant for his uneasy soul. With one scream, which he forgot a few moments later, he got up and ran down the Stolyarnyy Pereulok to his little cabin. Unexpectedly the need to come back to his dirty room turned into the real, strong desire.


End file.
